


How I Care for My Husband

by MostWeakHamlets



Series: A.Z Fell Cooking (aka vlogger au) [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Chronic Illness, Crowley has ptsd, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, South Downs, Vlogger AU, antila the cat, aziraphale has a cooking show on youtube, aziraphale just loves crowley so much, not a human AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:42:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22370479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostWeakHamlets/pseuds/MostWeakHamlets
Summary: A.Z Fell Cooking uploads an unusual video. Instead of a new recipe, Mr. Fell shows everyone how he cares for his husband, Anthony, on his worst days.Spring is around the corner, and Aziraphale is ready to see Crowley start to recover from his usual winter complaint. However, a new member of the family comes along, and it doesn't seem to be as smooth of a recovery as Aziraphale had hoped for.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: A.Z Fell Cooking (aka vlogger au) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610359
Comments: 184
Kudos: 994





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how much sense this will make if you haven't read my previous fic, Parsely, Thyme, Sage, and Daffodils. But I do suggest you read that before you read this. 
> 
> There is also more material for this AU on my tumblr, mostweakhamlets.

The video starts out of focus. The camera is in a bedroom, pointed at a figure on a bed that appears to be sleeping. There’s barely any noise--just a little shuffling, a door opening, and a quiet: “Anthony?” 

White letters come on the screen. A dainty font. 

_ How I Care For My Husband  _

A few seconds later:

_ (on his worst days)  _

The camera focuses. Aziraphale walks into the frame and sits on the edge of the bed. He brushes Crowley’s hair off his forehead and whispers. Crowley rubs his eyes but doesn’t open them. Aziraphale helps him to sit up, though he slumps forward and drops his head, his red hair covering his face. 

_ “There’s been quite a bit of concern about Anthony lately.” _

Aziraphale is sitting alone in the kitchen--his usual environment. He frets with his ring. 

“Anthony has been struggling since we’ve moved to the South Downs last year. He’s been ill quite often lately, and the cold weather makes it worse for the poor dear. We’ve seen the comments and questions about his health, and we’d like to reassure you all that this isn’t anything we don’t know how to deal with. It’s a complicated mix of things that we have been dealing with for some time. But we’d like to show you how we  _ do  _ deal with it.

“We hear about you and your loved ones struggle with conditions similar to Anthony’s, and we’d like to make this as a sort of... show of solidarity. We’d like to reach out to the community of people who have similar problems. If we can offer any help, then it’d make this whole ordeal somewhat worth it.”

In the bedroom, Crowley clings to Aziraphale, his legs over the edge of the bed. He wears his sunglasses now, and his eyebrows are scrunched together tightly above them. They rise together, slowly, and take a moment before they start walking. Aziraphale holds one of his hands and has his arm around his waist. 

They make it a few steps before Crowley’s legs collapse underneath him. Aziraphale catches him and lowers him to the floor. He repeats, like a mantra, “You’re alright. You’re alright. I have you” before the voiceover takes the stage again. 

_ “Anthony can’t do much on his bad days.”  _

They’re in the kitchen. Crowley is sitting in a chair at the table, though it looks exhausting to keep himself upright. He’s hunched forward. His pale cheeks are sunken. Aziraphale sits next to him, a plate of toast and a cup of tea between them. 

“Just a little bit,” Aziraphale whispers. “For me. I know you can do it.”

Crowley picks up a piece of toast. 

_ “He has trouble eating.” _

The footage jumps. The toast still sits on the plate. Half of one piece is gone. Crowley shakes his head. Aziraphale nods and stands, taking the plate.

_ “I try not to push, but he’s lost a significant amount of weight as we know most of you have noticed.” _

He helps Crowley to stand again. He comes back for the tea that was left behind. 

There’s a few seconds of footage of Azirpale holding Crowley up at the bathroom sink as the latter brushes his teeth. He sits on the toilet, and Aziraphale combs his hair. The bob isn’t styled the way viewers are used to seeing it. The waves are frizzy and matted. Aziraphale pulls it into a half knot--not to be stylish as can be seen by the bumps and the loose strands, but to simply keep it out of Crowley’s face for when Aziraphale uses a damp cloth to wipe it down. 

In the sitting room, Aziraphale settles Crowley to lounge on the sofa, laying a heating pad over his stomach and layering blankets on top of that. 

“Would you like anything?” 

“A book?”

“Of course, my dear.” Aziraphale brings him a well-loved book. “Call for me if you need anything.”

Crowley opens it to where he last left off. He lays his hands over the pages, his fingers running over the Braille sentences. He flips a page.

“Today, I’d like to show you how to make homemade juices.”

The video jumps to the kitchen. Aziraphale stands at his typical place. He smiles at the camera, hands folded in front of him. His outfit is free of wrinkle or stain. 

“These are all for Anthony, who struggles with solid food at times but still needs something to take in. They’ll be made with fruits and vegetables--obviously--and I try to make them as palatable as possible.”

A variety of fruits and vegetables lay out on the counter. 

_ “Filming is slow and videos aren’t uploaded as quickly as they are in the summers.” _

Aziraphale motions to the oranges that rest in their own bowl. 

“Anthony doesn’t like anything too sweet at the moment, and he’s--”

“Angel!”

Aziraphale’s face pales. The smile drops. There’s a quiet thud.

“Angel, I need help!”

He rushes off camera, out of the room. The conversation is too quiet to make out without mics. There’s a slightly scolding tone. 

_ “Anthony needs me more on his bad days--especially when he exhausts himself trying to do anything by himself.” _

Aziraphale settles Crowley on the sofa again; this time, laying down. He’s an alarming shade of white. Much paler than he was that morning. His breathing is labored. His hands don’t seem to know where to go, but they don’t want to stay put. A weak (scared, perhaps?) whimper is heard. 

Aziraphale pulls his sunglasses off. His eyes are closed, and there are dark shadows under them. 

He looks nearly dead. 

“You’re alright now,” Aziraphale says, running his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “Just rest, and don’t get back up without me here.”

“Can you stay with me?”

Crowley’s voice is pathetically quiet. 

“Of course. I’m right here.”

He takes Crowley’s hands and holds them with both of his own. As Crowley drifts off, he presses Crowley’s knuckles to his lips. 

_ “Somedays, we’re at our wits’ end, but we have to work around what Anthony needs. If he sleeps for half the day, we need to accept that and try to work with it.” _

The only way the viewers can tell that time is passed is by the sun, now orange and low, peaking in the window. Crowley is still on the couch, dead to the world. He still looks pale, though not as much as before. 

Aziraphale sits on the edge of the couch with a glass of the aforementioned juice, a fun-colored straw sticking out of it. 

“Anthony, dear. Wake up, please. Just for a few minutes.”

He grabs Crowley’s sunglasses off the end table and helps him to put them on. 

“I just want you to have a bit of this.”

He holds the straw to Crowley’s mouth and holds it steady as Crowley takes small sips. Aziraphale whispers quiet encouragements until the glass is empty.

“There we go, my dearest. Very good.” He runs his hands through Crowley’s hair and kisses his forehead. “You can go back to sleep now.”

Crowley mumbles something not picked up by the camera’s microphone. 

“No, we don’t need to continue filming. We can get you settled into bed if you’re ready.”

Crowley nods. Aziraphale reaches towards the camera, and the screen goes to black. 

A second later, Aziraphale is back in the kitchen, sitting alone. “So… That’s what we do. In a day.” Aziraphale closes his eyes and whispers, “God, it’s only been eight hours. Barely a day.”

He looks exhausted. His clothes are slightly rumpled. The man looks like he’s been up for 24 hours straight.

“We make it work, as you can see. And just because he’s asleep for the night, doesn’t mean we’re totally done. If he wakes up, we have to deal with whatever wakes him up--sometimes it’s pain, sometimes he’s ill--and we… deal with it. That’s what we do, mostly. Deal with it. And we repeat it every day until we don’t have to, and then we… eventually, repeat it again. 

“But! He’s really only this terrible with the cold weather, and spring is just around the corner.”

And people watching will feel relieved that another human’s (or what they believe to be a human (and would their sympathy fade when they realize what he really was?)) suffering but still be uneasy at how uncertain Aziraphale looks. After watching his videos for a year, they know when to spot when things are bad. They know when the usual sparkle in his eye is gone. 

Aziraphale reaches over to turn off the camera. 

The screen goes to black.

* * *

Crowley curled into Aziraphale’s side. Their bedspread was wrapped around their legs and extra blankets were tucked around Crowley. Aziraphale had their (Crowley’s) laptop open on his lap, looking at his channel’s page that Crowley had to pull up for him. 

“How are you feeling, dear?”

“Better than yesterday.”

Aziraphale ran his fingers through his hair. It was still wet from the bath they had just taken. 

“How’d the video do?” Crowley asked. 

“Quite well! It has nearly one million views.”

“Oh shit. They don’t usually get that many.” Crowley sat up, slowly. He wasn’t as pale as he had been in days previous, which Aziraphale attributed to the 20 hours of uninterrupted sleep he got. “Let me see it.”

“Oh, dear, I don’t know--”

“What? You didn’t film me doing anything embarrassing did you?”

“No, you slept most of the day. I just don’t like having to see you like this more than I have to.”

Crowley rested his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Close your eyes, then. Don’t watch.”

Aziraphale huffed but did so. He could hear his own voice introduce the video. Crowley tensed in his own arms before scoffing. 

“What’s all this ‘if we can help people’ nonsense. That’s all on you. Don’t make it a ‘we’ thing.”

“I apologize, dear. But it’s best if the humans don’t know that you’re truly a demon--evil incarnate. They should believe you have an ounce of empathy in you.”

“I don’t, though.”

“I know you don’t, my dear.”

“‘m evil.”

“Oh, the  _ most  _ evil. Absolutely appalling.”

“ _ Hey _ .”

Aziraphale smirked. Crowley pressed further into Aziraphale’s side. Somehow Crowley could always find a way to touch Aziraphale  _ more _ . His snakish nature took over, and he seemed to wrap himself around Aziraphale with the intention of squeezing the angel to death. 

Aziraphale really hoped Crowley didn’t actually intend to do that.

He heard a little mumbling to his left. 

“What was that, my love?”

He opened his eyes. 

“My love?” 

He looked to his left and found Crowley sound asleep. He smiled and paused the video. 

There was a comment he had read hours ago. A viewer, young and distressed, asked if it was sad to see Crowley sleeping so much. If he slept all day, she reasoned, didn’t it feel like Aziraphale was losing time with him? 

It was heartbreaking to see the replies where other viewers agreed based on their own experience. Aziraphale had yet to respond. He didn’t know how. There was no sense of “lost time” with them. Besides, Aziraphale quite preferred Crowley sleeping over the times when Crowley couldn’t sleep. 

Aziraphale moved to close the laptop and place it to the side, but he paused. 

He refreshed the page as Crowley taught him to do. 

_ 1.1M views _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is getting a little sad! Buckle up, kids! This chapter isn't the worst.
> 
> Also, shout out to kiranovember for inspiring the little bit about Italy! They suggested Crowly would like the Mediterranean last chapter.

11 am came with little fuss. 

The sun fell through the kitchen window, pooled over the table and made a warm patch for a snakish demon to sit in and enjoy breakfast. Crowley nibbled on his toast, watching Aziraphale pull on his jacket, straighten his waistcoat, and tighten his bowtie. 

“Are you sure that you’ll be alright while I’m gone?”

“I’ll be fine, angel.”

“You won’t overdo it?”

Aziraphale twisted his ring around his finger and furrowed his eyebrows. Crowley held out his hand for Aziraphale to take. 

“I’ve already told you I won’t.” He kissed Aziraphale’s ring. 

“Call the bookstore if you need me?”

“Of course.”

Aziraphale brushed crumbs away from Crowley’s mouth. He smiled. Crowley suspected that Aziraphale liked fussing and that he secretly enjoyed it when Crowley was unwell. He had brought it up once, and Aziraphale had insisted that it wasn’t true and made a big show about how much he suffered when Crowley suffered. It took half an hour to convince Aziraphale that he was only joking. 

“You promise you’re feeling well today?”

“I’m fine. The weather’s changing.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I’ll be off, then. Remember that there’s lunch and dinner ready for you. All you have to do is heat it up.”

“Yup.”

“And don’t try using a miracle. You know how that drains you.”

“I  _ know,  _ angel.”

“I’ve left instructions on how to heat it all.”

“Got it.”

“And if you’d like anything else, I can make you something when I get back.”

“Won’t be necessary.”

“Have a good day.”

“Diddo.”

Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s forehead, brushing his hair behind his ears. Whenever Aziraphale kissed him, Crowley always felt a mix of angelic magic meant to calm him down and adrenaline that his own corporation pushed out. His heart jumped every time. 

“I’ll be back this evening. I love you.”

Crowley’s eyes, with dark shadows underneath them, were bright. 

“Love you, too, angel.”

* * *

Aziraphale hoped that the rain hadn’t dampened (figuratively, of course, he thought with a smirk) Crowley’s mood. He would hate to have a good morning ruined for the demon just when things were beginning to look up. 

The rain didn’t bother to touch Aziraphale as he made his way up to their little cottage. Maybe next year they could go away to someplace warm. Crowley did love the Mediterranean Sea. He was quite the water snake when he had the opportunity, and the English Channel would hardly ever get warm enough for him to enjoy himself. Maybe they could go away that summer when Crowley recovered more! It had been ages since Aziraphale had seen Italy and, well, if they stayed far enough away from the Vatican, Crowley would have a splendid time as well. Amalfi was beautiful the last time they saw it together. 

Aziraphale pushed open the front door of the cottage. 

“Crowley, I had just the most splendid idea!” 

The lights were off in the sitting room. A quick snap and they were on, eradicating the darkness and dreariness, but Aziraphale grew worried. The house was eerily silent. 

Aziraphale walked through the sitting room and followed the light coming from the kitchen.

“Dear?”

Crowley sat at the table with his back to the doorway. His hair was tangled and frizzy and wet. 

“Dear, is everything alright?” 

Aziraphale walked around to Crowley’s side and knelt down on one knee. His clothes were damp and mud was drying on his knees, his boots, and down his sleeves.

He held, bundled in a blanket they hadn’t owned before, one of the tiniest kittens Aziraphale had ever seen. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of weeks old and had yet to take on the “cute” look baby animals had. It looked odd with tiny ears and beady blue eyes surrounded by unkempt hair that was suspiciously dry. 

Crowley tried holding a dropper (something else they hadn’t owned) full of milk (which Aziraphale suspected hadn’t come from their fridge) to its mouth. 

Crowley had been far too weak that entire winter to be performing such miracles. 

“What’s happened, my dearest?” 

Aziraphale looked up at him. He was crying, his breath unsteady and rapid. The yellows of his eyes were blown out without a hint of white visible.

“Please talk to me.”

“Her mother left her,” Crowley said, voice gravelly. “What kind of mother leaves her child like this?” 

The kitten must have been the runt of the litter, left behind to fend for herself. Aziraphale reached out to stroke her head. 

“She was alone. In the garden,” Crowley said. “I couldn’t leave her out there.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale said. He took in Crowley’s pale face and flushed cheeks. “Did you use miracles to help her?”

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, sighing at the feverish heat he felt. Crowley had angered Pestilence right before their retirement to the point where Crowley was vulnerable to falling ill based on outdated beliefs--such as staying out in the rain for too long.

“Let me take this little one and get her settled for the night,” Aziraphale said. “And then we can get you settled.”

Crowley watched as Aziraphale cradled the kitten in his arms and carried her to the weaved basket that was suddenly on the table. He placed her on the bed of warm blankets that would stay warm if they knew what was good for them. She cried at him, her mewling so pathetically high-pitched and quiet. 

“She needs to eat,” Crowley said, wiping his eyes. “I couldn’t get her to eat.”

“I’ll make sure she eats later.” Aziraphale looked at the container of untouched dinner on the counter. He sighed. Perhaps a kitten would be easier to feed than a snake. “For now, let’s get you warm and in bed.”

He didn’t bother trying to help Crowley stand. He slid his arms under Crowley’s legs and behind his back and picked him up. 

“I’m cold,” Crowley mumbled when Aziraphale laid him on the bed. 

Aziraphale kissed him on the forehead. 

“You feel quite warm to me,” Aziraphale said.  _ Burning up, in fact. _

A wave of his hand and Crowley was under the covers in thick, tartan pajamas that he would surely make a fuss over once he was coherent. But Aziraphale at least made them black and red and gray this time. Maybe Crowley wouldn’t complain so much. Maybe Crowley would finally admit that the tartan pajamas were comfortable and thick enough to keep him warm without the help of half a dozen quilts. 

“But you’ll soon be well enough,” Aziraphale said. “And then I get to tell you all about the little plan I began hatching for us! I think you’ll be quite pleased.”

Crowley blinked up at him but didn’t quite see him. Aziraphale knew Crowley wasn’t seeing him. 

“Plan?” he asked. 

“I was thinking about a little holiday. To Italy, perhaps? I know how much you adore the Mediterranean. If you don’t want to see Italy we could go to Spain or Israel or Egypt. We don’t even have to be on the Mediterranean if you don’t want to.” 

“Like Italy. Good pasta.”

“You’ll have  _ all  _ the pasta you can dream of. All the gnocchi di ricotta and spaghetti alla puttanesca in the country if you wish. We can spend mornings on the beach and evenings around shopping plazas. You can even cause some trouble around the churches--just nothing permanent. I know how much you enjoy cathedrals being little more than tourist attractions. Doesn’t that sound nice?” 

Crowley nodded, closing his eyes. Aziraphale feared his smile looked hysterical when accompanied by his rambling and the way he stroked Crowley’s hair. 

“Give it some thought. We can pick our destination later and find a hot week to go down. Or a hot month! We’ll discuss the details later. Just sleep for right now, and I’ll go check on your new friend downstairs. You’ll have to tell me how you found her some time. I’d love to hear the story.”

Crowley was asleep. Aziraphale kept smiling. If he didn’t smile, he would cry. And he couldn’t cry. Not when Crowley needed him. 

And Crowley needed him to look after that kitten right then. 

The kitten looked up at him when he approached her. She did look quite helpless, and he knew Crowley’s weakness for the helpless. Kids and animals and the occasional elderly person were all the same to him. They were all granted immunity from Hell--from him. Except for geese. Hell had been given geese, and it was spooky when they recognized Crowley as kin. But everyone else wasn’t susceptible to Crowley’s wiles, and Crowley had liked it that way. They were, for him, an excuse to be just a tad gentler. 

_ “I saw the way you waved at that child.” _

_ “He waved first! It would be rude. I don’t get to be rude to babies. That mother, however…”  _

Aziraphale ran his knuckle over the kitten’s head and down her back. Her head was tilted to one side as she peered at him with watery eyes. 

“Let me see you, dear girl.”

He feared to pick her up. She was the size of his hand--smaller, even. And even though his touch was steady enough to split a split hair and light enough to pull apart a cloud, he feared he would be too rough with the delicate, little thing. 

He scooped her up. She didn’t fuss. All animals naturally trusted Aziraphale. Except for geese. They often snipped at him. 

The kitten hunkered down in his hands. He lifted her, slowly, to his face. 

“You’re poorly, aren’t you? Just like Crowley upstairs.”

The fur around her eyes was matted down with crusted, dry tears. He could clean that up soon. The rest of her was matted in spots, and when Aziraphale peered in her ears he could see a buildup of something brown.

Best to let a veterinarian look after her. They knew what should be there and what shouldn’t. They could also find a place for her to stay. A nice little home with humans who would take care of her.

Aziraphale placed her back on her warm bed. She squeaked at him. It couldn’t be called a meow. 

“We’ll get you help. Don’t you worry. We won’t let you suffer. Crowley wouldn’t hear of it! He is quite soft, you know.” Aziraphale blinked back tears and kept smiling. He had to keep smiling. “He exhausted himself for you. Used a few too many miracles and now the poor dear is ill. All for a kitten. A tiny, insignificant kitten.” 

Aziraphale took a shaky breath and wiped away the tears that were beginning to fall. If he were capable of looking down at the animal and feel hatred for it, he probably would. If she hadn’t been in their yard, he wouldn’t have noticed her. He would have made his dinner and stayed dry inside without using a single miracle. Aziraphale would have come home to most likely find him dozing on the sofa. He could have kissed Crowley awake, and they would have split the cake Aziraphale was saving for a good evening. 

Aziraphale pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, choking on a sob.

But the kitten  _ was  _ in the yard. And Crowley was a loveable idiot who had probably knelt in the mud for God knows how long and performed the miracles he shouldn’t have to get the damned animal inside and warmed up and fed. 

They were so close, and now Crowley’s health was ruined. They were so  _ fucking _ close. They could have been in Italy in a month. Two months at most. They could have been eating pasta, and Crowley could have been dragging Aziraphale into the ocean even though Aziraphale always insisted that he was more a sinker than a swimmer. 

Aziraphale sobbed through gritted teeth, rocking himself back and forth on the chair. Who should he blame? 

The kitten for showing up? For being the runt of her litter and tugging on Crowley’s heartstrings? For being so unfathomably pathetic that she needed miracles at the expense of Aziraphale’s husband? What was her fault? Aziraphale could blame her mother. But then, she was acting on instinct. 

Should he blame Crowley for being so stupid to exhaust himself into a fever? For not calling Aziraphale when he needed help? He was just doing what he thought he needed to do.

He could blame himself. He wasn’t there. He was eager to see his bookshop again. He should have been with Crowley. But then, he knew he couldn’t smother Crowley all the time. Crowley needed alone time. 

He couldn’t find the right person to blame. And perhaps that was because he wasn’t angry. 

“This is too much. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.” 

He was overwhelmed. And tired. God, he was so tired. He usually only got tired once every millennium, but this was the second time in the past two years he was exhausted. He couldn’t imagine how Crowley felt being tired every day.

“God, just tell me what to do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely pleased with this chapter. I thought I was, but now I'm not. I'll probably like it again soon. But it's a necessary chapter, so at the very least it moved the story forward.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fell down the hole of "I need to make this chapter better before I can post" and then proceeded to hate everything about it. But... here it is. 
> 
> Warning: discussion of putting animals down and discussion of hospice care.

“You won’t be in here for long, dear.” 

Aziraphale placed the kitten down on the warm blankets inside the small carrying cage. She didn’t make a sound and barely moved when Aziraphale slid his hand out from under her. Like Crowley, she had gotten worse through the night. Neither of them had any energy to make any noise or movement, and Aziraphale was beginning to worry about how he was going to split his time between the two of them. 

“Just to a quick trip to a friend’s house and then perhaps a vet.”

Aziraphale donned his coat and carried the kitten out the front door, careful not to jostle her too much. He held her cage close to his chest as he walked down their little path and onto the street. The inside of the cage would be warm and safe from the rain that was due in a few hours. It would be the only reprieve anyone would get from the weather from the nasty weather. The sky was grey and the air was bitter. Sussex hadn’t seen a drop of sunshine all morning, and it seemed to be that they never would ever again. 

Aziraphale knocked on the red door of Judy’s cottage. She had visited him and Crowley the first day they moved in for the sole purpose of snooping. She asked a dozen questions, and they had answered in their own way. They were retired and had both worked in London. Aziraphale owned a bookshop and Crowley did some odd jobs for a business. Sort of like an office manager, Judy had pointed out. Crowley said she had the right idea in mind. 

Once they had proved to be an eccentric, retired, gay couple and nothing more, they had won Judy’s affection. She had baked them a pie on their second day in Sussex, and Aziraphale had invited her in for coffee. The two of them began to meet regularly to talk about her son, Anthony, and a touch of neighborhood gossip. 

But now, Aziraphale knocked on her door and she answered with a sad smile as most of the neighbors began doing. She let him without much of a greeting and ushered him to sit at her kitchen table. 

Judy was in her very early 60s. She assumed she was less than ten years older than Aziraphale and seemed to take pride in her aged wisdom. There was hardly a problem that she couldn’t solve. The neighborhood adored her, and she had guests often. She was a tough woman yet sympathetic to everyone. There wasn’t a person who didn’t like Judy. Even Crowley had a bit of a soft spot for her. She looked like a stereotypical grandmother with permed hair dyed a dirty blonde and a penchant for layering high-collared shirts with large, out-of-date jumpers.

She was also a widow. 

Aziraphale had known the second he met her. He could sense those things. And if he hadn’t known, the pictures of her late husband hung around her house would have given it away the first time she invited him in for tea. 

“Who’s your friend?” she asked, peering into the cage. 

Aziraphale had set it on the table and slowly opened the door. The kitten lifted her head to look at them and then laid it back down on her paws. 

“We found her in our garden,” Aziraphale said. “And we’ve no clue what’s wrong with her.”

Judy’s own cat, Chester, mewled from the next room over. He joined them, his fluffy, white tail lazily swaying behind him. 

“Let me look at her.”

Judy pulled the blankets out and grabbed the kitten. It was much more noticeable now that the kitten held her head at an angle and had mucus building up around her eyes.

“Oh, the poor thing,” Judy said. 

“I thought that you might now what’s afflicting her.”

Chester rubbed against Azirpahale’s leg, leaving behind a streak of white hair. Aziraphale scratched his head once. Chester seemed pleased with the attention and laid down at the angel’s feet to groom his face and ignore the commotion above him. 

“I think she might have an ear infection or ear mites. Cats hold their heads like this when they have ear problems. And look at her poor, messy face! Probably an upper respiratory infection. She needs a vet, Zira. I can give you the number of the office I take Chester to. They’re very nice.”

Aziraphale nodded. He had wanted to avoid that. He had thought that maybe Judy would have something he could give the kitten and be done with it. He didn’t have the time to take her to a vet. Not when Crowley needed so much attention. Crowley was too much of a handful to deal with on top of another sickly creature. 

Not that caring for Crowley was ever a burden, Aziraphale quickly thought. 

But he didn’t have the time to take care of a cat or figure out what problems to miracle away and then look after it while he tried tending to Crowley. 

“Are you alright?” 

Aziraphale looked up to Judy. She had put the kitten back in her cage and had written the phone number and address of the vet on a pad of paper. 

“Yes! Everything’s fine.” Aziraphale tried to smile. 

Judy didn’t buy it. “You look like you’ve been crying. What’s wrong?” 

Aziraphale looked away. He hadn’t checked himself over in the mirror before he left. He only had time to make sure Crowley was fast asleep and would stay asleep before quickly bundling up the kitten and getting on his way. There was no time to look for bloodshot, puffy eyes and splotchy cheeks on himself. 

There was really no time to look after a kitten. 

“Anthony’s been ill,” Aziraphale said. Judy shrank in her chair. “More so than he usually is.”

“Oh. Aziraphale. I’m so sorry.”

“Things were just starting to get better, and yesterday it all got worse again, and I haven’t seen him this ill in a long time.” Judy didn’t know that that meant in 1918 when Crowley nearly discorporated from the Spanish flu. “He’s running a fever, and he’s still terribly underweight. I can’t get him to take food, and I don’t know what this is going to do to him. Nothing is helping.”

Aziraphale’s throat burned. His vision was foggy. 

“Oh, you poor dears.” 

Judy put her hand on his bicep. In the first month that Crowley had fallen ill and neither of them had found a reasonable explanation why, Judy did the same. She squeezed Aziraphale’s arm. 

“I don’t know what to do.” Aziraphale ran his hands through his hair, pressing the base of his palms into his temples. "I can't help him anymore. I thought it wouldn't get any worse."

“You have to take it one day at a time. That’s all you can do.”

Aziraphale sniffed. It wasn’t the answer he was looking for. Crowley needed an actual solution. He needed more than what Aziraphale was currently doing. 

“You have a difficult job,” Judy went on. “And you can’t control anything that happens. You just need to take it a day at a time and see what tomorrow brings.” 

It still didn’t feel right. But Judy would know best about all of it. She had been there. And she had survived it. 

“ _If_ __ it comes to this,” Judy said, picking up her pen again, “and I'm not saying it will, I’ll give you the name of the hospice center that helped me with Dave.”

The weight of the sentence fell hard on Aziraphale. Crowley's situation sounded hopeless to everyone (and Aziraphale's cloudy, tired mind didn't realize that Judy wasn't "everyone"). Aziraphale couldn't think straight.

What would happen if Crowley discorporated? Would Hell give him a new body? Would they realize he wasn’t indestructible as they had led them to believe? He could only imagine what Beelzebub and Hastur would do if they discovered that Crowley had weaknesses. 

Judy squeezed Aziraphale’s bicep again. “Whatever happens, I promise you it’ll be alright. It might feel like this is the end of the world, but there’s going to be something out there that keeps you going.”

The actual end of the world wasn’t so difficult.

Aziraphale wasn’t certain how true that was for him. Crowley really was all he had. He had been his only constant company for 6,000 years. If Aziraphale lost him, he didn't know what he was supposed to do. Hand himself over to the angels? Let himself be destroyed?

Judy placed a glass of water in front of him as his breathing hitched. 

"Just keep going," she said. "I promise you it means a whole lot to him."

Aziraphale took the water. It was cool and coated his dry mouth. He placed the phone numbers in his pocket, determined to only think about one and to let the other stay in the deepest cavity of his clothing. If he didn't think about it ever again, perhaps he could make it disappear. 

* * *

Crowley was woken by a kiss to his forehead followed by a cold compress. Aziraphale smiled down at him as he blinked up and decided on keeping his eyes clothes.

“Are you feeling any better, my love?” 

Crowley shook his head. Aziraphale fought to keep the smile. He stroked red curls back from Crowley’s face. 

“Can I see your pretty eyes? Can you look up at me?” Crowley’s eyes were still glassy, and there wasn’t a hint of white surrounding them. “There they are! Would you like something to drink?”

Crowley nodded. His tongue poked out to lick his lips. They were terribly dry. The dead skin flaking up was gray, and the cracks in the flesh were tinted red with dried blood. 

Aziraphale helped him to sit and propped him up against his pillows and headboard. He raised the glass of cool water to Crowley’s lips, softly encouraging him to take small sips so as to not upset his stomach. 

“That’s much better, isn’t it?” 

A half a glass of water was good. They’d try again soon. Fortunately, Crowley took liquids better than it took solids. He would have been in much worse shape if he wasn’t able to keep anything down for months. 

Aziraphale grabbed a small tub of petroleum jelly off the nightstand. He dabbed a little over Crowley’s lips, healing them instantly. Little touches of human things mixed with miracles kept them entertained.

“Would like anything else? I can make you something to eat--” Crowley was already shaking his head. “Well, let me know if you get hungry. I’ll make you anything you’d like.”

Crowley swallowed thickly. “Where’s the cat?”

“You needn’t worry about her.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s with a vet right now.” Aziraphale stroked his hair. “I dropped her off while you were sleeping.”

Aziraphale didn’t want to give him the full details. He didn’t want to tell Crowley that the vet was horrified by the kitten’s health, pointing out multiple illnesses she suspected just by looking at her. She told Aziraphale that they could start her on medications as soon as possible, but the prognosis didn’t look good. The kitten was already so ill and so malnourished. She was so young, the vet explained, and young kittens had a hard time bouncing back. If the mother already abandoned her, then chances were that she wasn’t going to make it.

She had asked Aziraphale what course of action he wanted to take. He had stared at her. And then it clicked. 

He had looked down at the kitten, laying atop her blankets on the metal table. She didn’t move. She didn’t make a single sound. The vet’s gloved hands rested on her small head, watching Aziraphale with sympathy. 

Aziraphale was tired. He didn’t want to think about the kitten anymore. He didn’t want to make decisions. He never had to make decisions when he was still affiliated with Heaven. The Archangels told him what to do, and he would listen to his orders with glazed-over eyes. He didn’t need to think for himself. And now he had a number for a human hospice service (which he would never be able to use but made him think about what he would need to prepare for if worse came to worst) and had to decide if a kitten should be put out of her misery or be left to suffer in the hopes she would get better. This was all above his ranking. 

He was just a Principality. 

The vet had told him to think about it, and they would let him know if the kitten responded to any treatments that night. If she hadn’t, and if Aziraphale hadn’t made a decision yet, then the office would take initiative. The vet promised it would be quick and painless. 

Aziraphale smiled down at Crowley, tucking frizzy waves behind his ear. Crowley would maybe forget about the kitten or not care in the end. It was, after all, only one kitten he had known for only a few hours.

“When do we get her back?”

Aziraphale kept his hand in Crowley’s hair. “Oh, dear… we may not.”

“What?”

“She’s  _ very  _ ill, my love. And it seems that her mother abandoned her for a reason.”

Crowley’s eyes widened and grew panicked. He tried sitting up, but his arms were weak. He only succeeded in lifting his head up. Aziraphale laid a hand on his shoulder. 

“What do you mean?” 

Crowley’s chest took its first heave. He made a sound that was between a choke and a whine. Aziraphale quickly moved him over and sat next to him, pressing their bodies together as much as he could. So much for Crowley not caring. 

_"Wonderful,"_ Aziraphale thought to himself. _"You've upset him."_

“Angel, you can heal her. Why won’t you heal her?” 

Aziraphale slipped his hand under Crowley’s shirt and pressed it into his waist. He could feel Crowley’s ribcage, right above his thumb, sticking out. 

“Nature needs to run its course, my love. I can’t interfere with these things all the time. Take deep breaths for me.”

Crowley shook his head. He made another choking sound. He grabbed at his shirt collar and pulled. Aziraphale quickly unbuttoned the shirt halfway down and took Crowley’s hands. He could see now the collarbones that were so prominent and the definition of his ribs. 

“My love. My dearest, let’s keep breathing together. Can you do me a favor? Can you name five things that you see?”

“Why won’t you--why won’t--”

“Shh, my love. Do what I asked, please.” Crowley didn’t say anything. Aziraphale sighed and clenched his jaw. “ _ Crowley!” _

Crowley flinched. Aziraphale pressed his cheek into the top of his head, instantly feeling guilt deep in his gut. He had never used that tone of voice with Crowley before. He had never used that tone before at all. He was always in control of his temper. 

“I’m so sorry, my love. Let’s try naming things, alright? I see a dresser.”

Crowley breathed heavily through his nose. “Mirror.”

“Wonderful! What else? I see the wardrobe.”

“Lamp.”

“A bookshelf.”

“Your books.”

“Very good, my darling. What are things that we can touch? I feel a pillow.”

“The bedsheets.”

“The mattress.”

“An angel.” 

Aziraphale could see Crowley physically relax. His shoulders weren’t as tense. The flush in his face was dying down. He blinked lazily, drained of all energy again. Aziraphale squeezed him and began unraveling himself from Crowley. 

“What are three things you can hear?”

“You. The clock. Um…”

Crowley’s eyes drooped closed. Aziraphale kissed his forehead. 

“That’s alright, dear. It’s awfully quiet in here, isn’t it? Are you feeling better?” Crowley nodded. “Wonderful. Let me get you tucked back in.”

Aziraphale helped him lay back down. It was like manipulating a rag doll. A pathetic rag doll. Aziraphale's stomach churned, and he bit his lip.

“I’m so sorry for snapping at you, my love.”

“‘s fine. You’re tired.”

Aziraphale tucked the blankets to Crowley’s chin. He wanted to sleep for a century as Crowley could. Even if it was just to hide from the shame of snapping at his ill husband after triggering the panic attack. 

“It’s not fine. That’s not how I should handle these things. I promise it won’t happen again.” 

“‘s’okay. No hard feelings.” Crowley opened his eyes. “Are you going to help the kitten?”

Aziraphale couldn’t say no to Crowley, and he knew that deep down it was wrong to let an innocent creature suffer. But wasn’t one allowed to not want to help? Wasn’t it okay to be tired of helping?

“Someone needs to,” Crowley mumbled. “Mom didn’t. Not a lost cause.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders dropped. Then again, it was important to ease the suffering of those who had no one else to help them. The vets could only do so much. 

“I’ll see what I can do. The veterinarian will call tonight, and I’ll try to work some long-distance miracles. In the meantime, you should sleep. Perhaps your fever will break soon.”

Crowley nodded. His breath evened out. He looked so peaceful when he slept. His face was relaxed when he wasn’t having a nightmare, and his mouth was parted so slightly to make him look adorable. Aziraphale wanted him to always look like that. He wanted Crowley to look like there were no troubles that worried him. He wanted Crowley to finally have a moment’s rest. And maybe if Crowley had peace, Aziraphale could finally breathe again. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! It's finally done! I hope everyone enjoyed it! I'm so happy to be finishing this and marking another story in the Vlogger AU as done. 
> 
> I may or may not write an epilogue for this depending on if this chapter is well-received and then if I have time to write it.

Crowley was roused from his sleep when something cold and damp was pressed to his chest and neck. He wiped it away, weakly hitting his wet pajama top and a soft hand. 

“Sorry, my dear.” 

He opened his eyes. Aziraphale was leaning over him, holding a flannel and smiling as he always did.

“Your fever went down considerably last night, and I was hoping to break it.” Aziraphale laid the flannel on the nightstand. “But it’s no worry. I’m sure a little more rest, and you’ll be healthy as a horse.”

Crowley’s back was tight, and his shoulders ached. He tried pushing himself up against the headboard only to have Aziraphale help prop him up against a small mountain of pillows. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Been better.” Crowley’s voice was hoarse. He tried clearing his throat. “Been worse, too.”

Aziraphale wasn’t one to look tired, but he did in that moment. He looked exhausted as if there had been a physical weight on him for a week and could do with a long nap. Nevertheless, he grabbed a glass of water and coaxed Crowley into having a few sips.

“Is there anything I can get you? Something to eat?”

Crowley knew that Aziraphale would have loved to hear him say “yes.” But his stomach cramped from the water alone, and he didn’t want to risk an emergency bathroom visit. Not when he was already shaky and sore. 

“No food right now, angel,” he said. “But a heating pad would be nice.”

And suddenly there’s a heating pad resting over his stomach, easing the knots and spreading a pleasant warmth through his hips. Crowley tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He wondered if he could manage to walk downstairs and stretch his legs for a few minutes. The rain shouldn’t have set him back that far. It wasn’t the first time he had taken ill from being in bad weather, and he knew his corporation by now. Even if it had become a little altered in the past year. A little damaged. 

He furrowed his eyebrows and looked at Aziraphale. “What happened to the cat? What did you do with her?”

Aziraphale pulled his shoulders back, almost defensive. “I took her to see a veterinarian, and her recovery was, as the doctor said, quite miraculous.” 

Crowley smirked. He wouldn’t let Aziraphale know how he relaxed lest the angel think he actually cared about the wellbeing of a cute animal. 

“Couldn’t resist saving the little thing?” he asked. 

“Not after you begged me to.” 

Crowley didn’t remember begging Aziraphale to save the kitten. It seemed unlike him to say outright that he wanted to actually help one individual (helping the entire planet from being destroyed, that was another thing). 

But he had had a fever dream of his fall and in that dream, he had turned into a helpless, mewling creature upon hitting a shallow pool of sulfuric acid on the floor of Hell. He curled up, feathers wet and too weak to lift himself off the ground. And in the dream, a white figure knelt by his side and picked him up from the dirty, burning water and wrapped him in a glowing, warm shawl. He rested his head against the figure’s chest and was placed in a different room. It was warm and bright, and he was dry and laying amongst the softest cushions in the universe. 

In reality, he had hit the floor before he even realized he was being sent down, head cracking against cement floors and wings breaking underneath him. He had screamed—not mewled—in pain for hours. Beelzebub eventually found him, shaking from their own pain of singed, shattered wings and festering sores on their face. They had helped him up, and it was the last nice act they ever did. 

“What did I do?” Crowley asked. 

“Just asked if we could have some mercy on the little thing when you brought her in,” Aziraphale said, patting his leg and standing. “I’ll be right back. Stay put—oh, I should probably get you out of those clothes. They’re all wet now.”

Aziraphale snapped, and Crowley’s sweaty, unbuttoned tartan pajamas (which he hadn’t realized Aziraphale had put him in) were replaced with his usual, neat, black silk. It felt better against his now-dry, hot skin. The socks Aziraphale had apparently put on him at one point had been changed as well. 

Aziraphale rushed out of the room and back in in a matter of minutes, holding a little basket. Crowley watched him clear a space on the nightstand among the glasses of water and mugs of tea and wet flannels. 

“What is that, angel?” 

Aziraphale pulled a blanket burrito out of the basket full of even more blankets. And sticking out of the tartan burrito was a tiny kitten head. She stared up at Aziraphale with slightly crossed eyes. 

“I thought you might like to see her.” Aziraphale handed her to Crowley who really had no idea how to handle a kitten burrito besides gently gripping it with both hands. “The veterinarian taught me how to swaddle her. She said that little ones like it. It’s calming.”

Crowley hummed. “Like human babies.”

“I suppose. She also gave us these little bottles so we can feed her every hour or so. Would you like to feed her, dear?”

Crowley was suddenly holding a ridiculously tiny bottle full of warm formula. Aziraphale repositioned the kitten so that she was upright. 

“Oh, I forgot to check the temperature. Dab a little on your wrist—you’re a natural at this. Have you done this before?”

Crowley wiped the milk away from his inner wrist, slightly jostling the kitten. “With a human child.”

“Isn’t it nice how nature is so consistent?” 

“Sure, angel.”

“Alright, she has to be kept upright. Or tummy down. And—that’s right. You’re very good at this. I couldn’t get her this enthusiastic about eating. She didn’t latch with me.”

The formula dribbled out of the kitten’s mouth and covered her fur. Crowley grimaced at the mess. But she was happily lapping up all that she could, her tiny triangle ears wiggling. 

“Isn’t she precious?” Aziraphale took a seat on the bed. “I think she likes you.” 

“Eh.” 

Crowley wouldn’t admit that she did look quite adorable wrapped up and steadily suckling on her bottle. But he did move her a little closer to his chest. 

“What do you think we should name her? If you’d like to keep her.”

“What are our other options? We can’t drop her back outside.”

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted to take her to a shelter or not.” Aziraphale sounded as though he was _very_ sure Crowley didn’t want to do that. “Or find a neighbor to take her in.” 

“That might be… a little cruel, don’t you think? Won’t she bond with us or something? She would probably be upset being uprooted from a stable home.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I thought you might say that. We’ll keep her if you’d like. I personally think she’d make a lovely addition to our home.”

“If it makes you happy, angel.”

“If it makes _you_ happy.”

Crowley shrugged. “We can keep her then.”

“So, a name?” 

Crowley pulled the bottle away from the kitten as she swallowed the last drops. He used the corner of her burrito to wipe at her mouth, getting all of the sticky formula out of her fur. 

She wiggled, and Aziraphale gently untucked her. She freed herself, and Crowley laid her on his lap where she mewled up at him, sticking her small nose in the air. It was a tiny mewl. Everything was tiny. She was a round ball with little triangles attached as ears and a tail. 

“What if we name her Antila?” Crowley said. 

“Oh, that’s beautiful. What does it mean?” 

“It was a constellation I helped form.” 

Crowley had designed the brightest star. He was trusted with those sorts of things back in the day, and he was quite proud of it. The constellation was nothing more than a triangle with a little tail. It felt appropriate for the black kitten who disappeared into her own fur to become a black mass with triangles. 

“Antila?” Aziraphale asked. “You don’t by chance mean… Antlia, do you?”

“No. Antila. I helped name it. I filed the paperwork.” 

“And what does it look like, dear?”

“It’s a right triangle with a little line hanging off. Like a half-drawn house. You can’t see it well from Earth.” 

“Oh, I’ve seen it, dear. And I’m afraid it _is_ called Antlia. The brightest star is Alpha Antliae. You might have misremembered.”

“No.”

“Dear, you’re still feverish. You might be a bit confused.”

“I’ve been calling it Antila for 7,000 years, angel. That was the name we decided on. We talked about it. I remember.”

“Oh… oh, dear. What do humans call that little thing we suspect you have?”

“Dyslexia?” 

“Yes. I’m sorry. I imagine you filed some paperwork a bit wrong. Misplaced the l and the i.”

Crowley stared. This was just the sort of thing that would happen to him. 

“I misspelled the name of my own project, and I’m just now finding out.” Crowley looked to the kitten. She laid down on his thigh. “Well, your name is Antila whether you like it or not.”

“I’m sure she adores it, my love. And I think it’s a fine name. It’s nice to know that we’ve all gotten it wrong this entire time.”

Antila dug her claws into Crowley’s leg through his quilt and bedspread. It felt like tiny pinpricks against his skin. He pulled her off and dropped her back into her warm basket. She mewled in protest, wanting to be closer to the man that was better at feeding her and handle smaller, more nimble hands. 

Aziraphale scratched the top of her head and then scratched the top of Crowley’s.

“Would you like me to do something with your hair, my dear?”

Crowley shook his head. He was too angry with himself to do anything but sleep. And perhaps sitting up and talking had taken more energy than he had expected. 

“I think I’m going to lay down again.” 

“That sounds like a grand idea. Maybe I’ll lay down with you.” 

Crowley smiled. He enjoyed having the extra heat from his plump angel next to him. And maybe Aziraphale would read to him, and he could fall asleep to a story where he had no idea who the characters were or what the plot was. It never mattered what book it was. Crowley just liked hearing Aziraphale’s voice. 

Aziraphale changed into a set of pajamas. They were light blue with darker blue trim and were perhaps the softest pajamas known to man. 

“If you’d like anything, just let me know,” he said as he settled next to Crowley. “Don’t try getting up by yourself.”

“I won’t, angel.” 

Crowley nestled down into his sheets. Aziraphale followed suit and wrapped his arms around the demon, turning him around so they could be front-to-back. So much for reading. Crowley supposed that Aziraphale was in need of a rare nap, and he wouldn’t blame him knowing that he took care of a kitten and a sickly husband after they thought the worst was over. 

“Sleep well, my love.” 

“I will, angel.” 

“Sleep well, Antila.” 

Antila didn’t respond. Crowley, still pissed at himself for her name, burrowed down into the sheets and his angel. 

In the next day or so, he would get up and look at the setup Aziraphale had for her. No doubt, she already had a crystal food dish for when she got older and a tidy litter box in their bathroom. It would probably never be messy due to Aziraphale _really_ hoping that Antila wouldn’t trail litter out or produce anything that smelled too terrible. 

She probably already had toys as well. Maybe a mouse and a little ball. Crowley would make a note of getting her a cat tree as she got older and bigger. Cats liked to look at windows. They could put it in front of their sitting room window and let her watch the neighbors walk by. 

But the fur on the curtain. 

There would have to be some miracles in place if they didn’t want to be cleaning all the time. She’d also need brushes. 

“Hey, angel? Can we make a stop at a pet store soon? We should probably make sure she has something to stimulate her when she’s a bit older.”

Aziraphale didn’t respond. Crowley wiggled free of the loose hold and turned around. Aziraphale laid on his pillow, mouth slightly open, and snoring ever so quietly. 

Crowley stroked his cheek. His poor angel deserved a long sleep after months of looking after him. 

“Let’s talk soon,” Crowley said, feeling the beginnings of guilt crawl up through his stomach and into his throat. 

He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead into Aziraphale’s chest. With an exhausting snap, the room was dark and an alarm was set for Antila’s next feeding. 

Together, the three of them slept. 


End file.
